


And a Sixpence in Her Shoe

by Slumber



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-15
Updated: 2011-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:34:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26391994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/pseuds/Slumber
Summary: There was a rhyme she hummed to herself, a melody of a time-honored tradition that she knew. Isabella Zabini repeated the words to herself, over and over again as she prepared to be married for the eighth time in her life.
Collections: 30-minute Writer's Block Challenge





	And a Sixpence in Her Shoe

**something old**

There was a rhyme she hummed to herself, a melody of a time-honored tradition that she knew. Isabella Zabini repeated the words to herself, over and over again as she prepared to be married for the eighth time in her life.

Her glamors were excellent, as they always were. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, a single delicate curl framing her heart-shaped face. Her lips, puckered red and vivid. Her eyes, deep-set and smokey. Her skin was smooth, her cheekbones defined by a shy blush on her cheeks.

The wedding dress she had fitted her body well, hugged her curves where they flattered and made her look at once modest and alluring. It was a secret trick, finding that careful balance between virtuous and irresistible, and even though the cloth was made of ivory instead of pure white she knew her husband would not notice. She was well-versed in commanding attention where she wanted it, and today it would be on how beautiful she was.

She inspected herself once more, checked to make sure that nothing in her face was marred by anything, that her dress was perfect, that _she_ was. She never let anybody in the room the hour before she was slated to walk down the aisle. It wasn't that she was superstitious--certainly she could claim to hold her own share of beliefs both improbable and not--but for her, this was her time. Her last moment of solitude before she tied her life to another's.

There was one more thing missing--she fingered the aged gold clasp of a long chain, smiling at the memories it brought. Damian Zabini was her first husband, and she'd never once, through the next six marriages that followed after his tragic death, considered changing her name. He was her dear son's father, her first love--her _true_ love, and she refused to believe he wasn't, no matter what anyone else said--and she carried him with her always. The necklace was his first present to her, a symbol of his affection when they were still seventeen and courting.

If she closed her eyes she could smell the southern air of the Italian summer still. If she closed her eyes she could hear his laughter, deep and warm, tickling her throat. If she closed her eyes--

There was a knock on the door.

"Who is it?"

Marcus' voice, muffled through the wooden door, wafted through. "Isabella, are you nearly ready?"

"In a minute," she said, taking the necklace and putting it on.

**something new**

It wasn't that she didn't like Marcus, or love him, even. Goodness, no, she never married out of anything else! He was handsome and kind, gentle and caring. He made her laugh and, if she wanted, would buy her the world.

She told him not to bother, as she'd only ruin it, so instead he bought her a ring.

He'd knelt on the deck of his yacht, after dinner when they were both woozy with red wine and giggling like school children, and he'd asked so sincerely that she'd been unable to say no.

He was hers and she was his, and that was all that should matter, shouldn't it? 

She laughed then, threw her arms around him. She dragged him to his feet and beneath the waning moon they kissed, and laughed, and planned for their engagement, their marriage.

This was not the first time she'd been giddy with the sensation. She drank love like an elixir, and to a certain extent, it kept her young. It kept her happy. Marcus was a fine wizard and any witch would love to be in her shoes--witches _would_ love to be in her shoes--and throughout the next few weeks it was his beautiful smile and the warmth of his touch that assured her they were doing the right thing. That it wasn't a mistake.

That this time wouldn't be like the last times.

She glanced at herself once more--she was perfect, she was in love, he was the right man for her. What more could she ask for, really? What more could she want?

She slipped out, opening the door to greet her bridal party.

"Ready?" one of her nieces asked.

"As I'll ever be," she said with as sure a smile as she could give.

This time would be the last time.

**something borrowed**

She grew up in a small village in the south of Italy, among yellow fields and dirt-streaked roads. Her mother taught her how to knead dough into rye, her brothers ran barefoot among the slippery stones of the nearby creek, and late at night she listened to her father whisper tales of heroic wizards slaying dragons and rescuing their princesses before she went to bed. 

He always kissed her good night, and whispered how she was _his_ princess, before he tucked her into bed.

Isabella grew up with the clothes her mother sewed herself, pink and yellow and flower-patterned cottons that fit her just right. She went to the market with her mother and learned when the fruits were at their ripest, what vegetables were best for which stews. Her brothers, as they grew older, stopped playing with her, but their friends continued to come by to talk to her.

It wasn't as though she'd grown up knowing she was beautiful, but that's how the village knew her. She was Bella, for more than just her name. The first suitor that arrived surprised her, but not her parents. It was the second, and the third, and the fourth, and the many more after that did.

She never wanted the attention, and Damian was the sole exception to that. He'd always been, from the moment he first came to play with her and her brothers in the creek.

But nobody believed that. There was a hag, her mother thought, a lonely witch who lived at the top of the hill who resented her beauty and the attention it gave her.

Isabella folded her mother's handkerchief and slipped it into a hidden pocket in her dress. 

Her mother thought a lot of things, she thought.

**something blue**

She'd never seen this hag who was jealous of her, but she knew her cottage well enough. It was rundown and empty, overlooking the village through crooked windows and shadowed by even more crooked trees. 

There was a dare, too. That she remembered well. One of her brothers had thought it up, and it had been her and Damian asked to fulfill it. 

That had been one of the first times Damian had taken hold of her hand and she'd clung to it, heart beating wild against her chest as they ran up the hill to knock on the door and run all the way back down, breathless and panting and exhilarated from the effort. They never saw anyone there, never thought to look back once their young feet were already flying down the hill.

There was a hag, her mother had told her. A hag who resented Isabella for her childish pranks, who disliked her laughter, who loathed her beauty. 

There was a hag, and a curse, and a dead Damian not long after they found out she was with child.

What else could it be, her mother wanted to know, even though she didn't say so until the third husband had died as well.

It was rubbish, of course. Isabella had gone to school; she knew what kinds of curses really existed, that they could be countered. They never lasted longer than three husbands; surely they wouldn't.

There was always a counter-curse, wasn't there? In her father's tales it was always true love.

In Isabella's dreams it was always Damian.

She held her bouquet firmly, smiled radiantly, and to the rising crescendo of the music she walked down the aisle. Marcus greeted her with a wide grin and she took his arm.

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider donating to local organizations who support trans individuals in your area.


End file.
